


Lost In Translation

by Avery11



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gaelic misunderstandings, Gen, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Scotland, a minor mistake gets Napoleon and Illya way more than they bargained for! This is a Call and Response story: "Lost in Translation" is the starting point, or Call. The story continues with Spikesgirl's "The B&B Affair."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost In Translation

 

**[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/avery11/pic/0003yrr4/) **

 

Napoleon Solo steered their rental car around another blind curve, praying that they wouldn't collide with any vehicles approaching from the opposite direction. A cloud of dust rose in the little Trident's wake. Beside him in the passenger seat, Illya scowled at the tall, thorny hedgerows looming on either side of the narrow dirt road.

“Between the dust and the hedgerows, I cannot see a thing,” he grumbled. “I think we may be lost.”

“How can we be lost? We have a map.”

“This is not a map,” Illya snapped, waving the glossy, folded pamphlet. “It is a brochure for a Bed and Breakfast. _'Haem an' Hearth._ Bonnie _auld_ accommodations at a _richt guid_ price.'” He flung the offending flier onto the floor in disgust, and began to root around in the glove compartment. “I am hungry. Wasn't there a candy bar in here?”

“Um.”

Illya glared. “You ate it, didn't you?”

The roadster fishtailed around another curve. “You were sleeping, _tovarisch_. I didn't want to wake you.”

“How considerate.”

“Anyway, I'm sure we'll find the inn soon, and we can get you a real Scottish breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast, kippers, grilled tomatoes, porridge, bacon, and a nice cuppa to top it off.”

“If you don't get us killed first. You barely missed that flock of sheep back there. Not to mention the pair of cyclists you ran off the road. Perhaps if you were to slow down --”

“Would you prefer to drive?”

“No thank you. I am still recovering from the unfortunate combination of Glenmorangie single malt whisky, fried haggis balls and far too many pints of the eighty-bob you insisted I try. What was that vile brew called? Sledgehammer? Sheepstagger?”

“Kilt Lifter. Hey, if you can't stand the heat --”

“It is the regurgitative tendency of the haggis I cannot stand. And speaking of heat --” Illya glanced in the rear view mirror. “Isn't that a police car flashing its lights at us?”

Napoleon groaned. “Now what?” He braked, and the roadster slowed to a stop. “Let me handle this, _tovarisch.”_

Illya arched his brow. “You cannot be serious! Need I remind you, Napoleon, of the current state of our affairs. We are hopelessly lost, tragically hung over, sleep-deprived, ravenously hungry, and have been stopped for speeding by the local constabulary, all because of your misguided desire to -- how did you put it? -- 'paint the town' last night. And you want me to 'let you handle it?'”  
  
 "It was a nice way to celebrate the end of our mission. Besides, I don't recall you complaining at the time. In fact, if memory serves --" Napoleon watched as the patrolman emerged from his vehicle. "Uh-oh, here he comes. Now behave yourself. Be quiet, and let me do the talking.”  
  
Distracted by the approaching officer, he missed the cunning smile that crept across his partner's lips. “Of course, Napoleon. Whatever you say. I wouldn't _dream_ of interfering.” Illya laid his head back against the seat, and closed his eyes.

The policeman who swaggered toward their car was short and squat, his beefy silhouette made even rounder by the regulation stab vest cinched tightly about his waist. A wooden truncheon dangled from his duty belt, along with a fat torch and a pair of shiny steel restraints.

“Good day, officer,” Napoleon said, flashing his dazzling smile. “Is there a problem?”

Illya cracked an eye open. “Not 'officer,'” he whispered. “Constable.”

“Shh.”

He shrugged. “Your funeral.”

“Och, aye, tha' be awt,” the constable replied, scowling. “Dinnae ye hink ye waur gonnae wee bit tui fest?

Napoleon blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“Ah say, dinnae ye hink ye waur gonnae wee bit tui fest? Whar be t' fahr?”

“'T'fahr?'”

“Aye, t' fahr! T' fahr! Urr ye stoaner ay heerin', cheil?”

Napoleon looked to Illya for an explanation, but his partner's eyes were closed, his head nestled cozily against one arm, his full lips parted in a sigh. He appeared to be sleeping _._   _Where's that Cambridge education when I need it?_  
  
Summoning all his skills, he replayed the constable's statement in his head, doing his best to untangle the oddly twisted syntax. _Something about “twee fest.” And “t' fahr?” The fire?_ Realization dawned. “Where's the fire? You're saying I was going too fast!”

“Och aye, ye neap. D' ye nae ken?”

“Oh yes, I do now. I mean, aye, I ken.”

“Well?”

“You see, officer, my friend here --” He indicated Illya with a wave of his hand. “-- isn't feeling very well this morning. A bit too much celebrating last night, if you catch my drift. See how pasty the poor fellow looks?" Beside him, Illya moaned softly in his sleep. "I was taking him into the village in search of a chemist, but we got lost --”

“-- an' then yer arse fell off.”

Napoleon's jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ye bletherskite! Der ye hink aam an rockit, tae haer sic' pish?”

“Rocket?” 

“Aye, rockit, ye divit. Glaekit.”

Napoleon continued to stare blankly.

With a sigh, the constable extracted a notebook from his vest pocket, muttering something about 'auld weegie bampots.' “Richt. Faur ye fae?”

“I'm sorry, offic-- er, Constable. I'm afraid I don't understand Gaelic.”

“Furry boots urr ye fae?”

“Furry boots?”

The constable rolled his eyes. “Creepin' Jaysus! Whar d' ye bide, ye daftie widgit?”

“Bide? Oh, you mean, where do I live?” Napoleon sighed, feeling relieved to have understood something, however small. “We're from America. On holiday.”

The constable nodded sagaciously. “Och, aye, that explains it. Yer a keelie, thin. Ye tawnie fawk urr aw' alike.”

Napoleon risked a cautious nod, wondering what the hell he'd just agreed to. _The guy sounds as though he has a mouthful of marbles. And that thick burr -- like listening to a buzz saw. Must be a_ _rural dialect._

The constable drew himself up importantly. He licked the end of his pencil, and prepared to fill out the citation. “Aw reit 'en. Goan tui fest, an' oan t'otter side ay t' road, tae. Shame oan ye. Nae, gie me yer licence, 'fore ah flin' t' buik at ye.”

Napoleon seized upon the only word he recognized. “License? Sure, just a second.” He reached for his wallet, and that was when the constable caught sight of the UNCLE Special nestled comfortably in the agent's shoulder holster. His eyes grew wide.

“Gie it ay t' vehicle! Naw!”

“What? No, no, offic -- I mean Constable. You don't understand --”

“Ayt!” the constable roared, reaching for his truncheon. “Naw! An' none o' yer clishmaclaver! Aam only a baw herr away fae pannin' yer gadgie arse in t' bighoose!”

Napoleon had only a passing idea of what a gadgie arse might be, but he knew he didn't want his in the big hoose. He exited the vehicle, careful to keep his hands visible, and passed his weapon to the florid-faced constable.

“Yer canny partner, tae.”

“Illya, you'd better wake up and do as the nice policeman says. Hand him your revolver while you're at it.”

Illya slid out of the car, yawning dramatically and rubbing at his eyes. "Revolver?" he inquired, looking positively cherubic. "What revolver? You know I cannot abide instruments of violence." He glanced at the UNCLE Special, tucked into the constable's duty belt, and placed one hand over his heart. "Goodness, Napoleon. Don't tell me you brought that horrible gun of yours along on our vacation? Whatever possessed you to do something so foolish?"  
  
"Why, you --!"

"Shoosh, ye tui." Keeping one suspicious eye on the dark-haired stranger, the dour-faced constable searched Illya with uncommon thoroughness. Eventually satisfied that the pasty-looking blond git possessed no weapons upon his person, he turned his full attention to Napoleon. “Totin' a foo gin is a richt serriaws awffense i' this coontrrie, cheil,” he declared officiously. “Aam gwan t'afta tak ye ben.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Napoleon replied, a tinge of desperation creeping into his voice, “but if you'll give me a moment, I think I can explain.”

“Och, aye?” The constable folded his arms across his ample chest. His eyebrows rose pointedly. “Goan thin. Thes hae best be guid.”

Napoleon turned toward Illya, who was leaning back against the hood of the roadster, quietly laughing. “Come on, Illya, you know I can't speak a word of Gaelic. Help me out here.”

“No, I do not think so,” Illya replied, smothering a grin. “I prefer to watch the carnage from afar.”  
  
That stopped him. "You're serious? You're really not going to help?"  
  
"Not for all the vodka in Russia."  
  
 "But --"  
      
 "I am merely doing as you requested, Napoleon. I am letting you 'handle it."

"But I didn't mean --" Napoleon spared his partner a withering glare. “I won't forget this.”

“Nor will I," Illya agreed with a snort. "It is the stuff of memories.”

“Goan noo,” the constable said, tapping his foot impatiently. “Aam nae goan t' wait awl marnin'. Stae bumpin' yer gums.”

“Yes, Napoleon, go on. Bump your gums.”

 _If looks could kill_. He took a deep breath. “Okay, here goes. Have you ever heard of an organization called UNCLE?”

The constable's face screwed up in confusion. “Ooncle? Ooncle fa?”

This was going to take some explaining, Napoleon realized. “UNCLE is the, er, company we work for. The United Network Command For Law and Enforcement. It's an international peacekeeping organization. U-N-C-L-E. See?” He smiled hopefully.  
  
 "Sae whit dae caur an ye wark f' yer ooncle? _"_  
  
_Wark f' yer ooncle?_ "Um, no sir, I don't think you follow. I don't work for my _uncle;_ I work for _UNCLE. U-N-C_ \--. Oh, never mind."He tried again. "My partner and I are, ah, returning to Aberdeen from a mission near the Mull of Kintyre, tracking several dangerous THRUSH to their lair."  
  
The constable's gaze sharpened. "Hoontin' throosh, waer ye?"   
  
Napoleon shrugged modestly.  
  
 "Och, aye, an' a puckle a' quail, ah suppose? Mebbe th' awd duck errr tui?" He scribbled an addition to the citation. "Hoontin' ayt aw sayson."  
  
_Quail? Duck?_ "Oh!" Napoleon laughed. "No, no, not birds. THRUSH is an  _organization._ The Technical Heirarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity, to be precise. T-H-R-U-S-H."  
  
 The constable glowered. "Ah ken hoo tae speel, cheil."  
  
  _Uh-oh._  
  
 Behind him, Illya was holding onto his sides to keep from laughing aloud.  
  
 "Look -- sir -- if you'll allow me to reach into my coat pocket, I'm sure we can clear up this little misunderstanding --"  
  
The constable's beefy complexion grew even redder. "Och, an' ye wouldnae be tryin' tae creash th' luif me noo, would ye?"  
  
_S_ _ay what?_  
  
"Bribin' an officer aw t' law. Tsk-tsk." He scribbled another note.  
  
"Whoa, hold on a minute! I wasn't suggesting -- "

“Yer bum's oot th' windoe, cheil.”

“My bum is _where_?"

“Och an a've heerrd enow, ye gallus wee besom!”

“But --”

“Whieest!”

Napoleon watched in dismay as the constable uncoupled a set of shiny handcuffs from his duty belt. He wondered if the pompous little man had ever had to use them before. _Mr. Waverly is not going to be happy about this,_ he sighed. UNCLE's top agents arrested. Brought up on multiple charges. Sent to the big hoose. It was a nightmare of epic proportions. They'd be the butt of jokes for weeks after this little escapade. He turned to Illya in desperation. “Say something,” he whispered urgently.

The Russian's eyes sparkled with mirth. "Words fail me." His shoulders shook with laughter.  
  
"Cut it out, Illya. This is serious. We could end up in jail."  
  
"Correction: _You_ could end up in jail. In case you have forgotten, _I_ was not caught flaunting the laws of a sovereign nation by carrying a concealed weapon."

"Only because you had time to hide yours."  
  
 Illya shrugged. "Opportunity favors the bold."  
  
The constable tapped his foot impatiently. "Enow, ye tui. Hauld it ye hans," he snapped.  
  
"Come on, _tovarisch,_ have a heart. Say something. Anything, I don't care what. Just get us out of this."  
  
"Clean up your mess, you mean?" Illya made a show of contemplation. “Hmm. I suppose I _could_  smooth things over for you. However -- "  
  
_However??"_  
  
"As you are no doubt aware, Napoleon, my services do not come cheaply. What, precisely, would I get in exchange for my efforts?”  
  
"You're kidding, right?'  
  
Illya stared.

“How about 'my undying gratitude.'”

Illya shrugged. “A paltry offer at best."  
  
The constable cleared his throat.  
  
_Damn that Russian fox!_ "I'll, uh -- do our mission reports for a week."  
  
"All that translating." Illya sighed, and held a hand to his brow. "It hardly seems worth the effort.”

"Enow muckin' aboot, cheil." The constable took hold of Napoleon's wrists.

“Fine! Name your price, you damned Russian! _”_

Illya's blue eyes blazed, victorious. “Very well, Napoleon, since you have asked so nicely.” He turned to the constable, extending his hand. “Guid marrn, sairr. Mah mukker is huir uv a' sorry at 'e waur speedin'. Ee wuz a bit stushie inna closer lest nicht. Ee's awfy peely-wally this marn.”

The constable's face lit up. “Och, at lest! Someain fa can spick Gaelic!” He pumped Illya's hand in relief and gratitude.

Illya smiled. “Aye, mah mukker er a high heid. 'Yon gadgie doesnae ken uir ways.”

The constable nodded. “Bit o' a balloon, 'e be.”

Napoleon leaned in. “Did he just call me a _balloon?”_

“Shoosh.” Illya waved him away. “Ah dinna ken aboot ye, Constable, but aam sore jacked.”

The man grinned, growing more relaxed. “Aam fair ferflucken, aye.”

“An' it's caulder than Baltic. Whit sae we gonnae no thes muckin' aboot. Fancy heedin' ower tae the scram an' scoop fer a coopla' bellywashers? Buckleberry's oan me.”

“Och an' yer a bammer, are ye, fer a shillypit! An' haer ah t'ought ye couldnae say boo tae a goose.”

The pair slapped one another on the back like long-lost brothers. “Com' oan!” the constable beamed, heading for his vehicle. “Time's wastin'. Follaw me!”

“What's going on?” Napoleon whispered as Illya slid into the driver's seat of their little roadster. “And what about my gun?”

“Patience, Napoleon. We are following this gentleman to the nearest pub, where we will purchase however many rounds of Kilt Lifters it takes to get our new best friend _seerioosly blootered.”_ As soon as the constable passes out, we will quietly reclaim your weapon. With any luck, we will be on the UNCLE jet heading out of Aberdeen before he comes to.”

“Blootered? Oh, Lord, does that mean what I think it means?” Napoleon's stomach did a little flip-flop of protest. “Ah well, I suppose it beats a stint in the big hoose.”

Illya grinned. “Och aye, an tha' it does. Now get in. We can discuss my terms of payment on the way.”

They drove away into the crisp, cool morning, Illya singing Robert Burns' _A Bottle And A Friend_ at the top of his lungs while Napoleon feigned sleep and weighed his options. Revenge would be sweet. _Och, aye._

/*/*/*/

  
  
**Author's note:** To read Spikesgirl's Response, _The B &B Affair, _go[ HERE](http://www.chromeandgunmetal.com/chrome/archive/9/thebb.html)


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